Page 6 of Felix

“No,” Rebecca says quickly. “I just… Ugh, don’t tell Mom and Dad, but I miss you guys. I wanted to hear a familiar voice.”

My shoulders come down, and I let myself into my building, heading toward my apartment door. “I’m happy to be in your ear whenever you need it, Bec. Are you settling in okay?”

“Yeah,” she says. “It’s just different.”

I bet. Rebecca started at a boarding school this term. Our parents were worried about her moving out at only sixteen, but my younger sister is a bit of a violin virtuoso. She was adamant she wanted to attend a high school dedicated to fine arts, and our parents—after much discussion—relented and let her go.

I’m not surprised Rebecca doesn’t want to admit to them that she’s having difficulty with the transition. She’s stubborn like that.

All us kids are, in our own way.

“I’m sure you’ll be used to things in no time,” I say, trying to reassure her. “But call whenever you want, okay? Just not during school hours.”

She snorts. “I’m well aware of the rules. Would you tell me a story?”

“Seriously?” I ask, bending down to check on Arthur now that I’m inside my place. “I thought you said you were too mature for stories these days.”

“Just this once. Please? But don’t tell Jules or I’ll blab about that poster of his you ripped.”

My mouth falls open. “Blackmail, Bec? Really? That was over ten years ago.”

“And he’s never forgotten. Neither have I,” she sing-songs.

“All right, cool your conniving little jets,” I grumble, setting my bag of energy drinks on the coffee table and sitting down. My paper can wait a while longer. “I’ll tell you a story.”

“Yay,” she cheers, sounding so much younger than the angst-ridden teenager she is these days.

Smile on my face, I start out, pitching my voice theatrically. “Once upon a time, there was this mean ogre named Julian who terrorized the town.”

“Oh, God,” Rebecca says, chuckling. “This is gonna be good.”

As I spin an impromptu tale for my younger sister, I feel as if I’ve fallen back in time. I used to do this for both Rebecca and Henry, the baby of the bunch, when I lived back home. Most days, I don’t miss the mayhem of my childhood. As one of five children, it was always loud, messy, and chaotic around our house. I was the quiet, middle child who blended into the wallpaper. And I liked it that way. Mostly.

But I’ll admit there are times, like now, when I feel a fond pang of nostalgia for those days now long gone.

But that’s life. And, if anything, I’m self-aware enough to recognize the way I live now is in direct opposition to that lifestyle for a reason. It was hard falling by the wayside all the time. Feeling unheard. Unseen.

I never want my siblings to feel that way, which is why I do my best to be there should any of them need it. Like now, with Rebecca.

When we end our call—Julian the ogre having succumbed to a gruesome death neither of us would wish on our real brother—I set my phone beside me on the couch. It’s late enough that I should probably start some dinner. And then I really do need to make progress on that paper. But I can’t quite help snatching up my phone again and opening my text thread to C.

Our recent exchanges are full of a mishmash of things. Talk about what I’m studying. Psychology. TV shows we’re both watching. BBC’s Life, mostly. The damn weather, even. And then there’s C’s commentary on my…performances, those particular texts making me blush now that I’m not in the heat of the moment.

This stranger outside my window knows more about me than most people in my life these days. And yet, apart from their love of David Attenborough-narrated nature documentaries, I know almost nothing about them. For all I do know, they could be an eighty-year-old grandma. I sure hope not. It would be truly mortifying to find out I’ve been semi-flirting with an octogenarian, let alone flashing my asshole their way. Yikes.

Yet I can’t shake the feeling that my mystery voyeur is younger than that. And male, even though I don’t have any evidence to prove it. It’s a gut feeling. An educated guess based on what I have learned.

Of course, I could simply ask and see what they say. But, by unspoken agreement, neither of us has broached the topic of C’s identity. Maybe I don’t want to know. Maybe it would ruin this game we play and the stupid smile I seem to have over a person I’ve never met.

Maybe I’d feel compelled to close my curtains, and I don’t want to do that.

Even so, I can’t help but wonder…

“Who are you?”

Chapter 2

Christian

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